Beryl walks through a radiant, sunlit hall lined with ornate columns and stained glass windows, the click of her hooves against the smooth stone floor the only thing she can hear. Her hoofsteps echo throughout the vast, empty room, a familiar sound, yet for some reason… unnerving. Something about them doesn’t quite sound right, as if each step echoes a few too many times than it should, and Beryl just can’t shake the feeling that they’re being followed. But… that can’t be the case; she’s alone in here, right? She’d surely know by now if she had unwanted company, wouldn’t she? Even so, the champagne Courser picks up her pace. Better safe than sorry, after all.

All of a sudden, everything goes dark. Beryl freezes, fearful and confused. How could this be…? The room had been illuminated by sunlight, for crying out loud! The sun never goes down as abruptly as that, nor can it be snuffed out. The silence left by the absence of her hoofsteps is filled too quickly by a faint chorus of distant whispers, and while the green-eyed mare can’t decipher even a single word being said, the implications are more than enough to make their stomach twist with dread: they aren’t alone in here as they’d originally thought. The voices remain steady, remain barely audible, and yet, she can feel something approaching; instinctively, she breaks into a gallop, but barely manages to take a few strides before something strikes them through the back.

Beryl awakens with a sharp gasp, jolted into the waking world by a hoof gently nudging her shoulder. Frantic, they scramble to their feet, hoping they’re ready for a brawl in their half asleep state, if it comes to it. However, in doing so, the only horse they find themselves face to face with is Logue; the brindle Courser backs away with alarm upon seeing the frenzied look in her eye.
“W-Whoa there,” He nervously tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you or anything, just… You looked like you were having a nightmare, y’know?”

Logue’s explanation slowly begins to ground Beryl in reality again, and while she still breathes heavily, she manages to find it in herself to straighten her posture.

“A-Ah,” The champagne Courser says, trying and failing to keep their voice level; a task made at least ten times harder by Pyrite wrapping their tongue around her ankle with concern. Nice to know the mimic cares on some level… but also, ew... “My apologies… I’m not usually one to lose my composure like that…”
Logue gives a small, sympathetic chuckle in response. “Aw, no need to beat yourself up about it or anything! Happens to everyone, especially the deeper in the Dungeon you go. The Moor of Sleep tends to be about where the restlessness and weird dreams tend to kick in, so… Honestly, it would’ve been a lot weirder if you had kept your composure.”

“...Good to know,” Beryl flicks her ears and huffs irritably. Now that he mentions it, she does remember having been warned about that before heading out this far… Except, that wasn’t the first time she’d had that dream, and she doubts it’ll be the last.